Stranded
by madeline313
Summary: 23-year-old Brian is sucked out to sea and ends up on the shores of Pinata Island. He is forced to set up a life for himself there and take over the garden. But, when his time comes to go back home, which life does he choose?
1. Prologue

I lift the sand up in the air with my dry, cracked hands, and let it fall through my fingers back onto the hot barren beach. Oh, how I wish I could trade it for the paved busy streets back at home. The crystal blue expanse before me called ocean, how I wish I could exchange it for just one glimpse at the lit up skyline of downtown Philadelphia. I long for my life back home, where I would watch the cars line up at the light from my apartment balcony. Like little bumblebees bustling along, the roads buzzing with traffic and horn honks echoing throughout the streets. This place is so unwelcoming, so foreign, that anywhere is better than here. I think about home, and how just days ago I was wandering the streets without a care in the world. People rushed to get to work and led their stressful lives, while I worked from home as an artist. I worked my own hours, and did whatever jobs I pleased. That was the problem with me, though. I never really realized how good I had it. I never lived in the moment. I never cherished every little thing I had. And now, I sit here all alone. I lost it all. All of it, taken away from me in a matter of hours. No more friends. No more art. No more Rebecca. No more of my relaxed, storybook city life. I have nothing, no one, and I am all alone in a place I have never before seen in my life. I replay the moment in my head. Being sucked into the ocean by a rip current too strong for my limbs to free myself from, and too quick for officials to rescue me from. It was Rebecca and I, having a day to ourselves on the beach. We'd gone out further and further into the water, splashing each other and playing like little children. We didn't even realize that the rip current was even pulling us out to sea until we noticed the beach was so far away and a coast guard speeding towards us. Unfortunately, there was only enough time for Rebecca to be saved. If I'd had the choice, though, I would have chosen for her to be rescued over me anyway. I feel so stupid, not even paying enough attention to realize that we were being swept away from the shores of New Jersey. All I can do now is pray that one day I will see Rebecca and my old life again. Now, I am isolated from everything I once knew before. It's a miracle that I didn't drown, really, but I'd rather be dead than stuck here forever. For now, I need to find a way to survive until the day I see America again.


	2. Savages

Think. What is there left to do? Gather food. Find water. Make shelter. I observe that I am not necessarily hungry or thirsty, so I begin by taking a look at my surroundings. I don't see or hear any other forms of life, but I see a path beginning in the forest. I tiredly trudge over to the path entrance and study it awhile. It had to be formed by humans or some sort of creature, for it could not have been formed naturally. There were no sticks, pebbles or plants in its wake, so anyone could walk along it comfortably. Just as I begin to embark on a journey that would soon decide my fate, a menacing growl from within the forest warns me not to enter. I sprint back to the beach, where I am safe and alone. I have no intention of getting eaten by some savage animal on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. This is not how I was meant to die.

For several hours, I think about how I need to deal with my situation. My heart knows that I want to be reunited with Rebecca and return to Philly. My brain knows that I need to realize that I will probably never see either ever again. Reluctantly, I come to the conclusion that I need to create a new life for myself here until I can even think about being rescued.

I look at the sun and observe that it must be a few hours past noon wherever I am. Carefully, I select a deadly looking stick from a pile of driftwood on the shore and begin at a brisk pace on the path. If I can find any other trace of human existence, it has to be this way.

For hours I bustle down the path, jumping at the sound of every leaf I step on. Every bird's chirp sounds like the chimes of a cemetery ringing in my ear. Every little gust of wind feels like a hurricane. When an apple falls at my feet, I instantly spear it on my stick in fright, but then laugh, a little relieved.

When the sky begins to darken, I start to look for a place to rest. I finally come upon a nice looking meadow that lays on the edge of a serene lake. Taking a seat and resting my sore limbs at the edge at the pine forest I had just trudged through, I watch the sun set in the distance. Despite my fatigue, fear keeps me from entering sleep for an hour or two.

The only thing I'd been wearing when I was swept away was my swimming shorts and a shark tooth necklace Rebecca had gotten me for our one year anniversary. The island had been hot during the day, but the night was already cold and I fantasized about my thick wool comforter back home. I nestled as best as I could in the tall grass and fell asleep to the sound of the soft breeze against the surface of the lake.

Morning comes sooner than I anticipate it to. All I want to do is lay here and sleep forever but I know that I need to get as much done in daylight as possible. I decide that the clearing would be a good place to set up a temporary camp, so I begin exploring the area for potential shelter.

On one side of the lake, there is a small water mill. I drink from its water and take a good look around. Immediately, living inside the mill is ruled out, as the noise from the mill would be too loud for me to sleep and there is barely enough room for one person to sit down inside it. I would need to make my own home.

Behind the mill, a stack of chopped wood and a wheelbarrow sit as if they were meant for me. I mouth "thank you" to the sky and begin to fill the wheelbarrow with wood. Whoever owns these items surely won't mind if I use them for a little bit. Maybe I could even help the owner out in some way, or they could help me get back home.

For a few hours, I stack wood at the desired site of my new "home". It is slightly precarious, as I have no nails or tools to work with, but it will do temporarily. I pick some blackberries from the bushes and eat them for a late lunch. Soon enough, I'm already back to work and constructing the second wall of my soon-to-be home. I don't really feel like eating.

Finally, it's evening and I have two walls constructed and it's time for bed again. I bury myself into the grass again and prepare for sleep. The sun is not yet fully set, but I am tired and need rest if I am going to finish my house tomorrow.

As soon as I fall asleep, my dreams are haunted with laughter. A cackling, old man sort of laughter. "HA HA HA HA HA!" It repeats in my ear until I finally awaken. And I am deathly terrified by what I see.

I lift my head and find myself staring at a group of what appear to be savages, wearing masks and cackling at the mere sight of me. One holds a jagged shovel, and another holds a hammer. One steps forward and says gruffly, "Hello there." I am stuck frozen in the grass, weighed down by fear. I watch helplessly as the figures approach me, chuckling still to themselves. "Oh, yes. He will make a wonderful sacrifice."


	3. Holy Moozipan!

I crawl backwards in terror, knocking over one of the walls I spent hours slaving over. The savages laugh at my discomfort and clumsiness. My fear turns to anger and I stand up. My fists clench and I prepare to fight. I'm not going down without giving it my all.

One savage steps forward and inspects my face, no further than six inches from me. Now is my chance. Attack when they don't expect it. And run.

"What the hell is that?" asks the savage, pointing to the crude wall that remained standing. The other savages laugh and high-five each other. I hesitate, getting a better look at the savage before me. His mask isn't a mask; it appears to be some sort of barrel, or keg.

"Come on, let's not play with our food," One of the savages shouts to the barrel-headed one. Before the savage can do anything, I impulsively smack him on the head - barrel, rather - and he falls backwards, the thud from the impact resonating in my ears. The other two savages laugh as their accomplice rolls down a hill, his barrel head bouncing along and picking up momentum.

Before they notice me, I turn and sprint away from the clearing and the pine forest as fast as I can. My heart pounds in my chest and my bare feet smack on the ground as I run. Something on the ground grabs my foot and I turn to see the barrel-headed savage grasping my ankle. "Ahh, I'm going to EAT YOU!" he shouts up at me.

Terrified, I manage to wrench my foot free and continue on my escape. I'm running out of breath, but I need to put lots of distance between the savages and me. I can hear the barrel-headed savage clumsily pounding after me, as his friends egg him on. I round a corner and dash towards a marsh in the distance.

I don't get very far until I trip over something, actually, someone, falling face first in the grass. "Holy Moozipan! Watch where you're going, hooligan! Was that you, making all that racket?" shouts a furious old man. I stand up and dust myself off, realizing I had knocked him out of his wheelchair.

Hesitantly, I stop in my tracks and help the man back into his chair. "I'm really sorry about that," I say to him. "I'm a castaway. I washed up on the shore here a few days ago and things haven't been going so well. Right now I'm actually trying to escape from a few mad savages."

As the old man opens his mouth to speak, the barrel-headed savage lumbers up to us, panting. Instinctively, I step back in fright, my eyes fixed on the brute. Expecting the old man to scream, I am surprised to see him laugh. Then, I notice he is also wearing a mask; A brown one with a yellow sun engraved on the forehead and ornate bronze feathers arranged near the top and sides.

Who is this man? Who are all these people? Did I just help someone who longed to kill me back into his wheelchair?

"Silly, silly boy! This man is not a savage!" the old man scolds me. "This is Arfur, owner of Arfur's Inn. He offers a wide variety of helpers that Islanders can hire to help them in their gardens." Arfur slaps me on the back as the other two men catch up with us.

"Yeah kid, we was just messin' with you. We're not really gonna sacrifice you," Arfur explains, chuckling a little. I let out a sigh of relief, but the old man doesn't seem as happy as I am to hear this news.

"Well you ought to not be messing with newcomers, especially at this time of night!" rebukes the old man, rubbing at his thick glasses. The trio snickers to themselves, like a group of young boys being told off for pulling a prank.

"Jay, we were just on our way to the bar to just have us a little drink," one pipes up. His mask is blue, studded with an assortment of various nails and screws. The top of the mask has an extension that seems to be a hammer coming off of it.

"I told you, do not call me Jay! My name is Jardiniero and that's what I will be called by," the old man shouts furiously, slamming his fist on the armrest of his wheelchair. Arfur snorts in laughter and the man wearing the blue mask slaps his knee and doubles over.

"Willy, stop being so foolish and stand up!" Jardiniero sighs exasperatedly. The man in the blue mask, Willy, straightens up and allows himself to stop laughing. "You three better not wake me up again, you hear? Now get yourselves to the village without disturbing anyone else. Do you understand?"

The third man replies with a hint of respect, "Yes, Jardiniero. We won't displease you again." His mask is orange and it reminds me of something like a scarecrow. He wears an oversized floppy hat on his head, casting a dark shadow over his face.

"Thank you, Bart. At least you've still managed to retain some maturity here… Keep an eye on Willy and Arfur for me, will you?" Jardiniero says to the scarecrow-like man, who is apparently named Bart.

Bart, Willy and Arfur blunder in the direction of what must be the village, and Jardiniero adjusts his wheelchair to face me. "So, you're a castaway, you say?" he addresses me for the first time since I had knocked him over.

"Yes, sir," is all I manage to say. Jardiniero stares at the moon, twiddling his thumbs and thinking.

"Ah, yes. I remember when I first arrived here. Well, you can stay the night with me and we'll have Willy build you a house tomorrow. Of course, I'll have to get you some chocolate coins as well, and a shovel, a mask, and all sorts of goodies…" He trails off. "Do you have any questions for me? About the island or anything?"

I think for a few seconds before asking him, "What in the world is a Moozipan?"


	4. Village Visit

I stay the night with Jardiniero, and I learn that I have washed up on Piñata Island. It is situated somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, but I am not sure where; I had no idea it even existed. There are no form of animals on the island, only piñatas. They run, fly, walk and climb like animals. They eat, breathe and sleep like animals. Most of them even resemble specific species of animals. However, they are only piñatas, and they are not animals. Like a Moozipan. A Moozipan is a piñata, but it's pretty much identical to a cow.

There is no contact with any other countries or communities; Piñata Island produces everything it needs, from food to clothing. There are no airports, or any ships powerful enough to make a journey to any other landmass. Returning home to see Rebecca and Philadelphia again is completely hopeless.

In the morning, Jardiniero takes me down to the village to help me settle into my new home a little. First, we go to Willy Builder's to sign a contract for a new house.

"Mornin', Guv!" Willy greets me as I enter his shop. Jardiniero rolls his eyes and wheels up to the counter.

"Are you free today? Brian here needs a house," he asks, stroking his white feathery beard. Willy hops off the barrel he was sitting on and kicks a glass beer bottle aside.

He lifts up a crate full of blueprints and replies, "So far no one's called, so yeah, what kinda house we lookin' at?" A map of the Island is spread out on the counter, displaying all the available lots on the island.

"It depends on how much yuh' willin' to spend. Cheapest house I got for gardeners starts at five thousand chocolate coins, and it's a five hundred six square foot ranch." Willy says, plopping a catalog of different houses onto the counter.

I look at a diagram of the house. It seems like a good match for me. There is one bathroom, one bedroom and enough living space for one person.

"It looks like a good plan. I'll take it, but all I have is a few quarters…" I say, trailing off. I suddenly remember that the people of Piñata Island don't use American currency, they make their payments in chocolate coins.

"I'll pay for the house, and you can pay me back for it when you start your job," Jardiniero offers. I wince a little, remembering my old job as an artist; Self-employed, working from home and on my own schedule.

"Okay," I reply, my eyes flickering over the map of empty lots. The only one I would be interested in was located next to the mask shop.

"Decide on a lot, yet?" asks Willy, filling out a form for a new home.

"I'd like this one, by the mask shop… If that's okay," I reply. My hope is that I can get a job at the mask shop, helping to make what appears to be the only type of art on the island: masks.

"Oh, we can't do that," Willy says, briefly looking up from his paperwork to glance at the map. "That lot is colored in green, which means it's a garden lot. You can't build a house there."

A garden lot? Why would someone buy a lot that big, just for a garden? A hobby maybe?

I keep my questions to myself and simply begin to look for another lot. Jardiniero glances at the clock and says, "Brian, we're running low on time. Why don't you take the lot behind my house? That way, I'm right next door if you need any help and you're a five minute walk from the village." Reluctantly, I agree to take the tiny lot, realizing I won't have much of a yard.

After visiting Willy, Jardiniero takes me to the Island Bank to set up an account for myself. When we get there, it is very busy, so we are forced to sit in a cramped waiting room.

Eventually, Jardiniero speaks up and breaks the silence. "This is the only bank on the island, you know. That's why it's always so crowded."

"So where can I get a job?" I ask, changing the subject. I don't mean to sound rude, but I'm not in the mood to talk about the history of an island I hadn't even known existed with an old man I've known for less than a week.

"Well, what did you have in mind?" Jardiniero asks, fingering the tattered hem of his sleeve.

"Back home, I was an artist… I was thinking I could do something with art or graphic design?" I inquire.

"Oh, heavens, no. You haven't had any type of schooling. If you want a job as a crafter, you need twelve years of schooling." I run my fingers through my unkempt hair in distress. What am I supposed to do now?

"What else can I do then? Can I just do the schooling?" I ask, a little afraid of what the answer might be.

"Usually, islanders wouldn't pick their job. When they are young, they go to a festival in Piñata Central called the Sorting Festival. All the little children are gathered and evaluated by the island's instructors, to see what their skills or interests are. If a little boy makes an interest in building, he will go to construction school. If a little girl makes an interest in piñatas, she will go to veterinary school. The schooling lasts for twelve years, and then the islanders are ready to work."

"So, can I do the schooling or not?" I repeat nervously.

"Well… you can do the schooling, but since you are not of traditional age, it will cost you one million chocolate coins instead of the normal three thousand chocolate coins; A fortune even I do not own. The instructors don't like taking in extras, so that is their way of getting something out of it."

My heart drops into my stomach. There is no way I'll be able to raise the money for school, and I will be forced to get a job that I will not enjoy. I finally spit out, "So, what jobs can I get without schooling?"

"Usually, the kids who don't display any talents in the Sorting Festival are given the jobs that nobody wants to do. They usually become cleaners, fishermen, waiters or waitresses… things of the sort."

I begin to pace. "Are you absolutely sure, there's nothing else? A job where I can express myself, work my own hours?" I beg.

"Well, there is ONE…" Jardiniero says, a glint in his eyes.

"Oh, really? What is it?" I almost yell in excitement, tightly gripping Jardiniero's shoulders. But, I am not pleased by his reply.

"Gardener."


	5. A History of Piñata Island

Gardener. It certainly beats garbage man. I'm not very pleased with it as an occupation, but I already decided what I'm going to do. I'm going to create the most beautiful garden; The best garden on the whole island. And when I do, I'm going to sell it and use the money to go to art school. I mean, how hard can it be to plant a garden?

Jardiniero sets up my bank account for me, and then we head over to the mask shop. The owner of the shop is a short young woman with wild red hair. She wears paint-splattered white overalls and a red shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Hello, Jardiniero! Who's this we got here?" she asks in a "trying-to-hard-to-be-friendly" tone. Frowning, she looks me over, touching my face and feeling my nose. I assume it's how someone is normally fitted for a mask, so I just patiently stand there. When she finishes, she says, "Hm… I've never seen YOU around before…" Her tone sounds a little too displeased.

"I'm new here. A castaway," I explain. "I don't have a mask yet." Already I don't like her. She seems too judgmental and rude.

"Oh, are you? Well that explains a lot…" she says, beckoning to my frayed swimming shorts, which I was still wearing. I feel my face burn red with anger. Who is she to insult me?

I hear Jardiniero stifle a laugh. "Elizabeth, we need to get Brian a mask. Can you take some measurements? We'll come back tomorrow to pick it up," he calmly requests.

Elizabeth jams a tape measure up in my face and measures the lengths of my eyes, nose and everything on someone's face that could be measured. A few times she accidentally pokes me in the eye without apologizing.

I am relieved when it is time to leave the mask shop. "Jardiniero?" I ask him. "Wasn't I supposed to… you know… tell her what I wanted my mask to look like? What color it should be…?" Jardiniero laughs.

"No, no. I apologize for forgetting to tell you these things; I am so old, my brain gets a little forgetful sometimes. You don't pick what your mask looks like. The mask-makers will make you a mask that reflects who you are, and what you like to do," he explains.

Of course! One less thing on this island that I get to choose for myself. I begin to worry what my mask will look like. What if I don't like it? What if Elizabeth makes my mask make me look like a sissy? She already thinks I am one…

"Jardiniero, why do I even have to wear a stupid mask?" I yell at him, stopping dead in my tracks.

"It's always been a tradition, boy! The island was first discovered a long, long time ago when the Europeans wanted to explore everything. Some Europeans believed that they could find new lands by sailing across the open seas. Unfortunately, back then, their ships weren't very strong, so they often shipwrecked. And that's how the island was discovered. The Spanish ship, "The Poseidon", wrecked in a storm and ended up here," Jardiniero rants, and then pauses, to polish his glasses.

"So… why do I have to wear a mask?" I repeat impatiently. We still have to go to the tailor and get me new clothes, and go find me a garden lot.

"Half the people on the Poseidon died from the crash," Jardiniero continues. "The survivors began to cultivate the land, planting and growing the island's pumpkins and corn. They soon discovered the existence of piñatas, and decided to name the island Piñata Island. They wanted to return back to Spain and inform their country of the great discovery."

"The people did not break and eat the piñatas, but rather regarded them as sacred, because of their Spanish culture. They tried to rebuild the ship to return to Spain, but they could not. Their captain had passed away in the shipwreck and there were no humans inhabiting the island. The survivors decided to cultivate the island and call it their own."

"At first though, the people were ashamed that they couldn't share their finds with their home country. They felt like they had failed. They wore makeshift paper bags over their heads, which eventually evolved into decorative masks. These masks were a symbol of the people's remembrance for Spain, and the tradition was passed down throughout the years."

"Oh, I see…" I say, scratching my unshaven chin. "So, if all of the people here are of Spanish descent, why don't you all speak Spanish? And do you even eat meat at all?"

"Well, the majority of the people who ended up here were English speakers, so English became the main language. Some people spoke Spanish, but it died out and everybody spoke English after a while. After being on the island for a long time, a hundred years or so more, another ship reached Piñata Island. By this time, the whole island had been settled by the "Islanders", as they called themselves. The newcomers helped the Islanders by helping them build ships and setting up trade routes with them."

"Wait!" I shout. "I thought you said Piñata Island didn't have any ships and didn't trade with anyone?"

"Well, not anymore! Let me finish speaking," Jardiniero retorts angrily. "Anyway, the people who set up a trade system with the Islanders turned out to be French. The system went well for a long time, up until about sixty years ago. I remember the rebellion clear as day. I had already met my wife and had started raising children when it had started. It was hard bringing them up during the Revolution, but we managed."

"So, France, all this time, had kept the island and the trade with it as a secret. That is why no one ever knows it existed, except for France. But not even the people of France knew. Only the highest governing officials knew. They wanted to keep the island's resources to themselves and not share them with other countries."

"The French people started chopping down the island's forests, and oppressing the Islanders. They took extra resources without giving anything back in return. One day, the Islanders reached their breaking point when France renamed the island to "Nouveau France", which means "New France" in French. By now, the Islanders thought the island was their own country and that they were an independent nation. They burned French ships and cut off all trade."

"The Revolution lasted several years, and by some miracle, the islanders won. They vowed to never trade with any country again, so they destroyed and sunk their best ships. And that is why Piñata Island does no longer trade with foreign countries. Since France, no one has discovered the island. Oh, and that's also why we don't eat meat anymore. There's nowhere to get it from, since there are no wild animals on the island. Just recently did we start eating the candy of piñatas, when somebody made the discovery that piñatas actually enjoyed being broken."

I find myself becoming more intrigued by this island. Maybe living here for a while wouldn't be so bad, after all.

"Oh…" I say, fascinated by Jardiniero's story. He had answered all my questions, and now it was time to go get my new wardrobe.

We come to a store called "Stitch's Fashions for Men" and go inside. There is no organization whatsoever; shirts of different style and color are just thrown together on random racks. Behind the counter, I notice spools of thread and various sewing kits strewn about. This time, I'm not as surprised by the store's disorderly manner, however. After all, Willy's and Elizabeth's shops weren't any neater.

Jardiniero promptly leads me to a shelf and starts handing me shirts, not bothering to ask what my size was or what kind of clothes I prefer to wear.

"WELCOME, WELCOME FRIENDS!" someone shouts in my ear. Startled, I jump and drop everything in my hands. The man who had come up next to me was at least six feet tall and had the body of a linebacker. I'm not one to love other men, but the only way to describe this guy is gorgeous. His dark brown hair is styled perfectly, and his blue eyes twinkle in the sunlight.

"Brian, this is Stitch. He owns this shop," Jardiniero explains, beckoning to the man. I guess that would explain the nice clothes he has on, and the sewing tool belt around his waist. His mask was a light shade of gray with streaks of green, blue and red running across it like ribbons. The eye-holes were outlined in a perfect pure white.

"Can I help you gentlemen with anything?" Stitch asks, flashing his pearly white teeth. I start picking up all the things I dropped on the floor, grimacing at an ugly smock Jardiniero had picked out.

"Brian needs some clothes to start out with. He's a castaway. All he has are those beat-up shorts. He's going to be a gardener, so the clothes don't have to be anything too special," Jardiniero replies. I stand up and hand the items to Stitch, who just lazily throws them back onto the rack. Then, he helps me gather some clothes.

When Jardiniero and I leave the store, I am carrying two pairs of blue woven pants and two sleeveless shirts. A pair of work boots were given to me for free. Overall, I am satisfied with the wardrobe. It's enough to last for now, and it was most certainly better than Jardiniero had had in mind.

We don't have time to search for a garden lot before sundown, so we just head home, snacking on caramel apples on the way. "Oh boy, I'm tired," says Jardiniero. "I haven't had that much excitement in a day since I found a Macaracoon under my bed." When I give him a questioning look, he says, "A Macaracoon is a piñata."

I help Jardiniero into his home and into bed, and then begin towards the site of my new house. The sun is almost fully set, so I can't help but think my eyes deceive me when I see what stands in my lot. It's a square frame built out of thin, wiry sticks of wood with what looks like bed sheets for walls.


	6. Brian's Encounter

I know that my house is supposed to be cheap, but I figure it should at least look better than a homeless man's collection of clothes poorly sewn together. Distraught, I approach the crude structure and run my hand against the cheap fabric. I could have built a house like this for free! I circle the building until I find the door, which had Willy's face stamped on the door.

I am just about to push the door open when someone suddenly springs out of the tall grass. "Ay, what are you doin?" the figure gruffly says. Startled, I finally realize it's Willy, who has just woken up from a snooze. "You been gone all day! I been waiting for you to come break the workshed!"

Nothing he is saying makes sense. I scratch my head and drunkenly reply, "Workshed?"

"Yeah, the workshed! Jardiniero didn't tell you? I build my houses under this here workshed so I can work in privacy. Then when I'm finished, I put my seal on the door and you have to come approve the house before I leave. All you gotta do is smash the shed with a shovel and I can leave," Willy explains, massaging his forehead.

Feeling even more useless, I ask, "And where do I get a shovel from after sundown?" He hands me a decent all - metal shovel and gestures toward the workshed.

"You can borrow mine for now. Forgot you haven't gotten one yet." Following his command, I give the flimsy shed a good whack and sure enough, the walls collapsed in a cloud of dust. The dust clears and it appears as though the workshed that was previously before me has vanished. Now I am face to face with my new home.

It's a plain off-white concrete flat with a red clay door. From the front, there are two identical square windows on either side of the door. I turn to thank Willy, and see that he has already begun to walk up the village trail.

"Hey!" I yell after him. He stops and turns to face me. "Thanks a ton for building me this!"

"Look, Brian," Willy shouts back. "I gotta be at the bar for blackjack in fifteen minutes so I can't hang around. If you ever wanna come have a few drinks with me or some bacon sandwiches, my shop or the bar is where you ought to be. I'll see ya around some time, Guv!" With that, he was bustling towards the village in no time.

Longing for rest, I open the door to my new home. I haven't had time to buy any furniture for my house yet, so I figure I'll just sleep on the floor. I flip on the lights and am fairly pleased with what I see.

I walk into a pale yellow entryway furnished with a coat rack, welcome mat and wall mirror. I see myself for the first time In almost a week; My cheeks are covered with unshaven fuzz and my eyes are bloodshot.

Deciding it's time to move on, I walk into a room on the right that appears to be a living room. There is one plaid armchair that looks extremely welcoming and comfortable, and a small television mounted on the wall. A small side table sits next to the chair and has a remote on it.

I enter a hallway and enter the next room: a dining room. It has a square wooden table with two wooden chairs. The placemats are soft yellow rectangles that match the curtains rather well. A small bowl of blackberries lies in the center of the table, so I grab a handful and devour them hungrily.

Continuing the tour around the house, I find it also has a kitchen, a bathroom, a laundry room and a bedroom. The walls of the bedroom are painted a pale lime green and the bed has a spotless white comforter. Exhausted, I plop down onto the bed and kick off my work boots. I am about to drift off to sleep, when something catches my eye. On the sleek black nightstand rests a set of paintbrushes, an assortment of paints and a blank canvas. Attached is a note.

It reads:

_Dear Brian,_

_Jardy told me you like doing art things, so I got you some stuff from the art shop. Enjoy it while you can, because you once you start your garden you'll be working full time. _

_From, Willy_

I run my fingers across the canvas, ecstatic. How much I miss running my fingers across that rough fabric. I sample all the paints on a paper plate I find in the pantry. I even rub the dry brushes against my face, each soft brush so welcoming. As I am reminded of my old life, I am also reminded of Rebecca. Oh, Rebecca. How I miss you.

Sitting silently, alone, on my bed, I dream about where I would be right now if I was back in Philadelphia. Finally, I snap back to reality and crawl under the covers of my bed, deciding to make a painting of Elizabeth in the morning.

The sound of laughter was ringing in my ears. Echoing. Like a chorus of little children. I was running in the water. Rebecca was only a few yards away. I picked up my pace and ran faster, sending bits of sand flying. The laughter grew louder, throbbing throughout my whole body. The faster I ran, the farther away Rebecca became. The laughter was killing me now. I stopped and covered my ears, when a humungous wave came and toppled me over. I was fighting to get to the surface, but I couldn't do it. Salty water filled my nose and mouth and I couldn't breathe. Soon I tasted blood. I clenched my eyes shut as tight as I could and quickly opened them.

I am laying in bed and I realize that I am buried underneath my covers and nearly suffocating. I throw the covers to the ground and realize it's already morning. I must have bit my tongue in my sleep; that seems to be where the bloody taste is coming from.

Feeling only barely more awake than last night, I trudge into the kitchen and get myself a glass of water. Now it was time to make my painting. I pull on my clean pair of clothes and being smearing streaks of paint onto the canvas.

I work for hours, perfecting every contour of Rebecca's face. Her perfect brown eyes, her thick brown hair, her beautiful cheekbones; all perfected. When I finish, I prop her portrait against the wall and admire it for about ten minutes. I feel so much better now that she's here with me.

Then, I decide to go into the bathroom and take a quick shower. The shampoo Willy left in my bathroom smells like a crisp apple; my favorite. I get out of the shower and dry off, returning to my bedroom. I sit and adore my painting for a little bit more, when I decide it's about time I should go see what Jardiniero is up to.

I slide on my work boots and am just about to lock up and leave when I hear a thud from my room. Could it be some sort of pinata? Didn't I lock the windows last night? Or maybe some intruder? Cautiously, I tiptoe back to my room and peer in the doorway.

"OH MY GOSH! SWEET JESUS!" I yell, tripping and falling onto the slick hardwood floor. How did _she_ get in here? In _my house? "Just what the hell do you think you're doing? What makes you think you have the right to just go in whosever house you please?" I shout, standing up._

"_Hahahaha! Maybe those work boots are a size too big, eh?" laughs Elizabeth, bending over to pick up my painting that she had knocked onto the ground. I assume it was what had made the thud._

"_DON'T TOUCH HER!" I shout furiously, scooping up Rebecca and cradling her in my arms. There was no way I was going to let this red haired freak of a woman come anywhere near my painting._

"_Oh what's wrong, you don't want me to touch your pretty painting of your little girlfriend?" teases Elizabeth, and crosses her arms as if she really doesn't care. I don't say anything, but I glare at her as I carefully put my painting back in its rightful place. "It's actually quite good, you know."_

"_Well… Thanks. I used to be an artist back home, you know," I reply, trying hard not to smile. I always love it when people compliment my work, but I can't forget how much I hate this woman._

"_Mhm, yeah," She says rather rudely, and simply walks out of the room. I follow her angrily. Why would she just leave with no explanation at all? I hate her for her rude behavior._

"_Just where do you think you're going?" I demand, stopping dead in my tracks in the hallway. She stops too, and turns and faces me._

"_Oh, now you want me to stay? I thought you wanted me to leave?" she retorts, smirking, and leaning against the wall._

"_I do want you to leave! And get off my wall!" I spit back at her, fuming. I feel my face turn red. I have never met someone who annoys me more than Elizabeth. Without saying anything, she turns and heads toward the door again. "Wait a minute!" I say, as she opens the front door and stands in the doorway. She raises her eyes at me and drums her fingertips against the doorknob. "Why did you come into my house without asking? And how did you get in?" She steps outside, still leaving the door open._

"_It's my job, Honey. I have to go around and find out what people are passionate about, so I can make their mask. As for how I got in, I have a ton of the locks that Willy uses on houses in my storage unit in the shop. Picking the lock was no problem. I have to go now if you want your mask in time," she explains lazily, and leaves, shutting the door behind her._

"_Oh, don't you call me honey!" I shout even though she has already left. I stomp to the door and fling it open. She wasn't going to leave with me dissed. "And don't call me honey, and don't-" I stop shouting. Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen and there are no footprints in my now bare dirt yard._

_Well, good. Now I don't have to deal with her anymore. I walk over to Jardiniero's house to see about getting myself a garden plot. I knock three times, and then just let myself in._

"_Oh good, you're here," says Jardiniero, wheeling over to me. "Here, have some." He hands me some bread and honey, then wheels over to his desk._

"_Um, Jardiniero?" I inquire, not trying to sound rude. He turns and looks at me, waiting for more. "Are we going to go buy me a garden plot today? It's already almost noon, and I want to go get a good look at the place before sundown…"_

"_Oh, I have something different in mind for you," he says, returning to his work, reading a book open on his desk._

"_What are you talking about? I thought I was supposed to be a gardener?" I reply, distraught. I hope he's not going to make me be a garbage man. I wait for minutes, repeating the question several times, but Jardiniero does not even turn and look at me. Lost for words, I look out the small round window into a field in front of Jardiniero's house._

_It probably wasn't even considered a field; it looked more like a wasteland. The earth was dry and cracked, and sickly yellow grass barely grew in segregated patches. Old ruins of buildings and yard scenery was smashed and sticking out of the ground at odd angles. It looked like a ghost town; an abandoned playground that was no longer flourishing._

"_Wow," I say, trying to break the silence. "I would hate to try and turn THAT into a garden." Surprisingly, Jardiniero turns around and wheels over to the window._

"_Oh, that?" he asks. "That's yours."_


End file.
